Burning Heart
by TheFreakZone
Summary: England and Spain share a long and bloody history. By the time England decides to give the finishing blow in Cartagena de Indias, they have been at war plenty of times before—and once, just once, lovers. Written for the Tumblr event A Brief History of Time.


_AN: My first entry for the event A Brief History of Time! It's about my all-time favourite battle with my all-time favourite historical figure. Everyone kneel to Blas de Lezo y Olavarrieta!_

 _Before we start: I have written another fanfic about this siege. It's called "1741" (which I have posted here; you can find it in my profile) and it focuses more on the actual battle and tactics, which are kind of brushed over in this one. Here I tried to focus more on Spain and England's relationship. Also, in between scenes I've put extracts from the song_ Burning Heart _by Survivor (which, as you may have realized, also names the fanfic). The song is from the OST of_ Rocky IV _, but I've always thought it fits this battle perfectly._

 _Disclaimer: I don't own_ Hetalia. _The cover image is from the comic_ Mi Tiempo se Agota _, from the Spanish TV show_ El Ministerio del Tiempo.

 _(Warning: this is a barely edited first draft because I didn't have much time to work on it; I put a lot more time and effort on the second one. I'll revisit and edit it when I have more time. My life's a mess right now. :'D)_

* * *

 **BURNING HEART**

 **February of 1741 – Port Royal, Jamaica**

The Caribbean was hot. Hot and humid. England could stand humid; hot, not so much. Nightfall came with milder temperatures, and thus was always welcome. The nation would wait until sunset to finally wander around, let the men see him and rejoice in his presence. Not that they needed much encouragement by then: their latest attacks had always been satisfactory, and the men's spirits were soaring. Everyone waited eagerly for the last offensive—the one that would end everything.

It would come soon. England could barely hold back an excited smile when the thought of personally putting an end to Spain's empire wandered into his mind. He kept fantasizing about the moment his troops would break down the walls of Cartagena de Indias, the most precious city of the Spanish colonies.

It would be glorious.

He'd make sure of it.

~{x}~

 _Two worlds collide, rival nations_

 _It's a primitive clash_

 _Venting years of frustrations_

~{x}~

England had finished one of his late strolls around the port. It had gone as usual: the men cheered when they saw him, raised their glasses to victory, sometimes tried to make him join them. Nothing seemed out of place.

But when he walked into his room and closed the door behind him, he felt a shiver in his back, a warning. A feeling he knew very well.

"You came straight into the Devil's lair," he said, calm, his eyes scanning every dark corner. "That's not very smart." His gaze finally caught a glimpse of two bright eyes that stared at him from the shadows. He smirked. "Then again, you've never been particularly clever, have you, Spain?"

A quiet chuckle was heard, and then the other nation — his enemy — walked away from the shadows and into the faint moonlight that came through the windows. He was fully clothed in black, something England hadn't seen since the times of Philip II, and his expression, though stern, betrayed amusement.

"And what brings you here, I wonder?" England went on. "You sneaked into my room at night—people may talk."

"And you'd love that," Spain replied. "But you don't have to worry: nobody saw me get in, as nobody will see me get out."

"You seem very confident. Did you plan to find me asleep? Hoped I wouldn't be able to put up a fight before you stabbed me?"

Spain's green eyes gleamed in the dark. "I'm not here to kill anyone," he said. "I just came to talk."

"Is that so?" England's calculating gaze moved all over Spain's figure. "No weapons are needed for talking; you carry many."

"Indeed." Spain's lips twisted. "Every precaution is needed when you're involved."

England snorted. "I'll take that as a compliment." He took a couple of steps forward and eyed Spain with caution. "What do you want to talk about?" he asked.

"I'm very pissed off at you."

"Me?" England batted his eyelashes, feigning innocence in a show that didn't even try to fool anyone. "Now what could I possibly have done to upset you?"

"You know it very well," Spain answered, crossing his arms before his chest. "You've been attacking my settlements around the Caribbean for over a year."

"We're at war, dear."

"A war that _you_ started."

"A war that you _provoked_. Or have you forgotten about my good friend Robert, to whom now I can only talk to from one side?"

"Jenkins was a pirate and a smuggler. He should consider himself lucky to remain alive."

"He came back home with his own ear in a jar, and a direct threat to my king spoken by one of your men."

"How do you know that actually happened? You weren't there."

"Neither were you." His patience growing thin, he pulled a pistol off his belt and placed the cannon against Spain's forehead. "What do you want?"

Of course, the bastard didn't even flinch. He looked completely unimpressed, as if facing the possibility of having his brains blown out was something he did every day. England supposed that, in a way, that was the case. He could probably count the years of peace Spain had had in the last few centuries with the fingers of both hands. It surely was hard to scare him with the prospect of violence.

Spain breathed deeply before answering:

"I know you plan to attack Cartagena de Indias."

England cocked an eyebrow, smirking. "You do? I guess I'll have to be more careful with spies from now on," he mused out loud. Although it wasn't a surprise, not really. The project had initially been secret, but there were so many people involved that it was only a matter of time until the information was leaked. "It's a shame that you're not going to be able to do anything about it anyway."

"I won't?" Spain's eyes narrowed into a dangerous glare, one that no matter how many times England faced, never failed to make him shiver. It was a raw reminder of who was still on top of the food chain. "Aren't you underestimating me?"

"I don't think I am, no." The cannon of his pistol moved from Spain's forehead to his chin and pushed his head upwards. "I'm just being realistic. I suppose you've done some sightseeing before coming to see me."

"You've got a nice fleet, I'll admit that. It's what, ninety ships?"

"And ninety more are to come," he replied before he could control himself, and rejoiced when his enemy couldn't hide neither his shock nor a small flash of fear in his eyes. It made him get carried away. "I'm putting together the biggest fleet mankind has ever seen," he said, eerily calm, as he walked towards Spain, pushing him backwards without even needing to touch him. "A hundred and eighty ships. Thirty thousand soldiers." Spain's back hit the wall, and England enjoyed having him trapped and at his mercy. "It's an Armada built with the sole purpose of crushing Cartagena, and it will not fail."

Silence engulfed them, England's last words floating in the air, threatening, both their gazes fixed on the other's, green against green, not a blink, not a sound. The atmosphere was tense; any sudden or unexpected move could end in tragedy.

And then Spain chuckled, his expression showing some sort of dark amusement.

"Oh, England, both you and I know very well that 'big armada' isn't a synonym of 'victory'." One hand, gentle yet firm, pushed the pistol away from his face, and the other grabbed the front of England's shirt, pulling him closer. "We already played this game fifteen decades ago, and you didn't end it nicely."

"Neither did you."

"No," Spain admitted easily. "But I think I proved that, unlike others, I don't need a storm to protect what's mine."

England's glare sharpened as he pushed himself away from Spain. "Planning on hiding behind a woman again?" he snarled, repulsed by the proud smile those words provoked on Spain. "Oh, no, this time you're hiding behind a _crippled_ ," he spat.

"His name is Blas," Spain replied calmly. "Blas de Lezo. You'd better remember it."

If only he could forget it. The Spanish Admiral had been giving him headaches for many years now: hunting down his pirates ( _corsairs_ ), sinking plenty of ships and capturing many others, all while showing off a devilish military genius. The capture of his precious Stanhope a few years ago still made him burn with rage. He could say that he only wanted to see Spain on his knees, but it would be a lie.

He also itched to put an end to Lezo.

"You've always been strong-willed," he said, calmer — eerily calm, even. "I admired that; still do. But you can't win, Spain. Not this time."

"You know me very little if you expect me to give up without a fight."

"Fight? You call that suicide a fight? You will send your men to die for nothing."

Spain leant forward, a big grin splitting his face, and England was suddenly reminded of a mischievous kid. "It won't be for nothing if they drag with them to Hell as many Englishmen as they can," he said, his voice a low, menacing hiss that contrasted with the cheerful expression on his face.

England wanted to reply something, anything; wanted to snarl back with his usual sarcastic wit. But, much to his horror, he realized he was frozen in place out of sheer terror. It wasn't the first time he was alone with Spain at night in a dark room, but the last time that had happened had been a _long_ time ago, and the mood had been _very_ different. Back then, he had admired the other's strength, but had never truly feared him.

Only after their almost continuous war had started had he realized that the Spaniard could be, in fact, terrifying.

Sensing his fear, Spain's grin grew wider and he leant closer, until their noses almost touched. "I'll see you at the battlefield," he whispered over his lips.

The next second, he had pushed him away and slithered outside like a shadow.

Suddenly alone, England breathed out heavily. He hadn't even realized he had stopped breathing when facing Spain's darkest side. Frustration swelling up inside of him, he clenched his fists and kicked the closest piece of furniture.

"You've been at the top for too long," he growled at the empty space where his enemy had stood seconds ago. "I'm going to personally kick you down."

~{x}~

 _Bravely we hope against all hope_

 _There is so much at stake_

 _Seems our freedom's up against the walls_

~{x}~

 **March of 1741 – Cartagena de Indias, New Granada (nowadays Colombia)**

The city of Cartagena de Indias was the most precious settlement of the Hispanic Monarchy. It housed all the gold and silver and other precious metals that were extracted from the colonies, and once a year all those riches were sent at once to Spain. The fortunes it kept within its walls made it a favourite target of pirates and foreign powers alike. Since its inception, it had suffered countless attacks, its thick walls had been breached countless times.

Yet its people always stood up again and prepared to fight whoever came next.

It was a city whose sole sight always made Spain's chest swell in pride.

This time, however, he was too filled with worry to rejoice. He had somehow managed not to show any weakness or fear in front of England in their encounter in Jamaica (an act the other seemed to have bought entirely), but he couldn't lie to himself: he _was_ worried. The fleet England had put together was much more powerful than he could have predicted.

"Spain?" a weary voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

Startled, only then did he realize that he had walked all the way to the Viceroy's palace, where New Granada was waiting for him.

His colony was still young, barely a teenager, and although already hardened by the continuous attacks Cartagena suffered, scared of impending threats. His dark eyes were filled with dread then, his fear surely worsened by Spain's worried expression.

"Spain?" New Granada repeated when his father-figure failed to answer. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Spain lied, putting on a brave façade. "Yes, I'm fine. I was just lost in thought." He ruffled New Granada's hair and pulled him into a hug. "Can you take me to Eslava and Lezo?"

"I don't have to," the boy sighed, visibly tired. "Just follow the screams."

Viceroy Sebastián de Eslava was the highest authority in the government of New Granada.

Admiral Blas de Lezo was the proud, devilishly clever commander of the navy in charge of the defense of Cartagena.

And their relationship was somewhere between terrible and lousy.

Lezo thought Eslava was an incompetent idiot, Eslava thought Lezo was an arrogant know-it-all; and the ego of the Viceroy and the volatile temper of the Admiral surely didn't contribute to make things better. According to New Granada, there wasn't a single meeting in which they didn't end up yelling at each other at the top of their lungs.

Just as the colony had said, the screams could be heard from afar, even from behind closed doors.

"… you have _no fucking idea_ of what the _fuck_ you are doing and your _fucking incompetence_ is going to take us to ruin!" Lezo's voice reached them.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Spain interrupted, pushing the doors open and walking inside, cutting the viceroy's reply. "What's the problem, gentlemen?"

"Sir," Lezo addressed Spain with a small nod, "we were discussing the best way to defend the city."

"And you were clearly disagreeing," the nation frowned. "I'm sorry, Admiral, but ultimately it's the Viceroy who has the power to decide."

Eslava puffed his chest up and looked at Lezo with superiority. The Admiral glared at him in return, his good eye blazing. Hadn't he had an eye-patch covering his blinded eye, his glare might have been deadly.

"Of course," he growled. "If I may," he excused himself before storming outside, his peg leg tapping on the tiled floor.

"As for you, Viceroy," Spain turned to Eslava, not letting him a moment to rejoice, "the Admiral is a wonderful strategist. You should at least consider his suggestions."

"I will, sir," the Viceroy said with a fake smile.

Spain narrowed his eyes at him, not believing his words at all. Sadly, his own authority only went that far: he had no saying in what the Viceroy ultimately decided. "We can't afford to lose," he reminded before leaving, New Granada trotting behind him.

~{x}~

They met Lezo on top of the walls. He was staring down at the port, a grave expression on his face, and didn't look away when Spain and New Granada stood each on one side.

"You may not be on the best of terms with Eslava, but he, too, only wants the best for the city," Spain said to him, only half-heartedly believing his own words. "I need you both at a hundred percent. Remember he has more authority that you do—don't get on his wrong end."

"I honestly doubt I can get _more_ on his wrong end," Lezo sighed. "Sir, would you please look at our ships? We have barely six. Six, against a whole fleet?"

"Not any fleet," Spain admitted quietly. "England is coming with a more impressive force that I'd expected."

"Are we going to be alright?" New Granada asked, a slight trembling in his voice.

"Yes, of course! We may have a smaller strength, but we double their courage," Spain smiled, confident. "And don't forget that France is coming with reinforcements, too!"

"If they make it on time," Lezo mumbled, darkly.

New Granada sighed and put his elbows in top of the wall, resting his head on his hands. "All of this mess because the stupid Jenkins had an ear cut off."

"Oh no, what a tragedy, I can't imagine how terrible that must be," Lezo said, monotone, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Spain had to choke back a laugh.

If there was one person familiar with losing limbs, that was Blas de Lezo. At only fifteen years old, he had lost his left leg battling against the British in Gibraltar. At eighteen, his left eye had been blinded after having been hit by shrapnel. At twenty-four, his right arm had been pierced by a bullet and paralyzed almost entirely.

It was no wonder he had been nicknamed _Mediohombre_. 'Halfman'.

And yet he was worth a man and a half.

"The English will arrive soon," the Admiral said. "We'd better be ready by then. I'll prepare my men as best as I can without disobeying Eslava's orders… and hope he's not as useless as he appears."

Soon, the British ships appeared on the horizon.

~{x}~

 _Is it East versus West_

 _or man against man?_

 _Can any nation stand alone?_

~{x}~

England wasn't sure how to feel. On the one hand, his troops were advancing, conquering one place after another. On the other hand, all of that came at a higher price than anticipated. His superiority in strength was clear—so why was it so damn hard to more forward? Yes, the Spaniards eventually surrendered the posts, but they fought every meter, every inch, like a cornered beast (which, in a way, they were). It was hard to rejoice over the capture of San Luis when it had been the lack of ammunition what had made the Spaniards raise the white flag.

 _It's fine_ , he told himself. _Victory will come sooner or later_.

It was a pain in the ass that _later_ seemed to be the case.

At least victory didn't seem to be any closer as the two highest commanders argued over the strategy to follow. Thomas Wentworth, who commanded the land troops, demanded more aid from the ships; Admiral Edward Vernon, who was ultimately the highest authority, didn't want to risk his vessels.

If asked, England would side with Wentworth — in fact, he'd go as far as to say he should have been the one in charge. But he wasn't asked. He didn't have a say. His presence there was only required to help boost the men's spirits, not to have an opinion.

Eventually, Wentworth gave up trying to change Vernon's mind and stormed outside, cursing under his breath, leaving England alone with the Admiral.

"You should at least consider his petitions," England said. "He's clever."

"There's no need to, sir," Vernon replied, waving his hand dismissively. "This battle was won before it started, and after having taken the fort of San Luis, it's only a matter of time until we see a white flag on the walls of Cartagena.

"In fact," he added after a small hesitation, "I was considering sending a ship back to England to inform His Majesty of our victory."

England frowned. "We haven't won yet."

"We will have by the time the ship reaches England," Vernon assured.

"You seem very certain."

"I am! I'll admit, I was wary at first. I have faced their Admiral before and he's a damn good strategist." _With a brilliant military history_ , he thought but didn't add. The fact that Blas de Lezo hadn't lost a single battle he had commanded was not to be mentioned. "However, he must have grown too old for this—he has barely given us any trouble. We will win this battle, sir. I'm sure of it."

His optimism was contagious.

England smiled.

"Go send that ship."

~{x}~

France had wanted to help Spain, he really had.

He may or may not have fantasized with an epic, last-minute rescue; with the way Spain's green eyes would glimmer in adoration when he showed up and saved him from England's evil claws. Also, why lie, the prospect of seeing his old archenemy biting the dust was thrilling.

However, and much to his disappointment, his fantasies had turned out to be exactly that: pure fantasy.

When his small fleet arrived close to Cartagena, it was easy to see that they wouldn't make it very far: the powerful British Armada stood between them and the city, an unbeatable obstacle they didn't even think of facing. They were brave, but not suicidal.

"I'm sorry, _Espagne_ ," France mumbled to the air, his apology sincere, as he heard the captain ordering retreat. "You're on your own."

~{x}~

The situation was at its worst when it happened.

Spain and New Granada stared at Eslava, both of them agape and unbelieving, as the Viceroy quietly admitted his failure at defending Cartagena and asked— _begged_ —Lezo to take full command. The Admiral smiled and accepted gladly (but only after stepping some more on Eslava's sunken pride).

And then, for some time, things seemed to change.

Lezo hadn't earned his reputation based on lies or rumours. He hadn't survived that long on luck or spirit alone. And when he got down to business, it was his time to shine.

"We're in quite a desperate place," he acknowledged, somehow managing to remain cool-headed. "I've got a few ideas, but we'll have to pray for them to work. First, I'm going to need two volunteers. And then, shovels. Lots of shovels."

~{x}~

When the English received two Spanish soldiers claiming to be deserters, they had no reason to doubt them and believed their word of a weak spot in the defenses. They were walked straight into a trap.

When the English started to charge uphill towards Cartagena, the trenches dug in zigzag gave them hell, firing at them from two fronts at once. There were many casualties.

When the English reached the wall and planted their ladders on the ground to overcome it, they were shaken after realizing that a two-meter deep pit had made it taller and immune to their ladders. They retreated back to the ships.

And when the Spaniards stopped fighting to have mass, the English stopped their attack out of both respect and confusion. They only realized they had been losing time when it was over and the harsh summer sun wouldn't let them advance two meters without collapsing.

The satisfaction of Lezo was only comparable to Vernon's frustration.

~{x}~

 _In the warrior's code there's no surrender_

 _Though his body says stop,_

 _his spirit cries, never!_

~{x}~

The last little victories, satisfying as they may have been, hadn't changed much their situation: they were locked inside Cartagena, running short on both food and ammunition. Their situation was dire, to say the least, and the men's spirits were faltering.

When Spain started to panic, he wasn't sure whether it was him or his people's feelings interfering with his own. Either way, anxiety kicked in, took over his entire being, and he had to use his last moments of reason to go panic somewhere else. If he were to break down in front of his men—in front of _New Granada_ —the consequences could be catastrophic.

So there he was, curled up in a narrow alley, breathing shakily as desperate tears rolled down his cheeks, when he heard the unmistakeable tapping sound of a peg-leg hitting the stone pavement.

"Sir?" Lezo's voice said. "Please, calm down."

Spain opened his mouth, tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked gasp for air.

"Please, sir, fight it," Lezo insisted. "I can't afford to have you panicking."

"B-But—" Spain stuttered. "What if we really can't win?" He threw his head back against the wall to look at the Admiral, a pained expression on his face. "What then?"

Lezo took a moment to answer. When he did, his voice was calm, certain: "Spain," he said, "I have given for you a leg, an eye and an arm. I wouldn't mind giving some of the limbs I have left; I'd give anything as long as it took us closer to victory. But, you know," he moved a little closer, "there is one thing I never plan on giving."

"What is that?"

A brief smile made it to his lips, and his eye burned like a thousand suns when he simply said:

" _Up_.

"We haven't lost yet, not until the British flag flies on top of our walls. Last time I checked, it was still your emblem up there. This is not the time to despair — this is the time to gather up whatever strength, whatever courage we might have left, and give it our all. And if we really can't win, then at least we'll give them something to remember."

Spain remained completely still for a few seconds of stunned silence. Then a small smile showed up on his lips, and kept growing bigger until he let out a breathless laugh. "I'm so glad you're here," he finally said, honest. "You're one in a million, Lezo."

"More like half in a million," the admiral corrected, offering Spain his arm to stand up. "Come on. Let's go kick some English ass."

~{x}~

From then on, it was easy.

It was easy to pick up the halberd, to stand in front of the troops tall and proud like the powerful empire he still was, to lead one last, desperate charge against the attacking army.

The doors of Cartagena swung open and the Spaniards stormed outside, bayonet in hand, and charged at the British with all they had. And that was a lot.

Spain was at the front, an unstoppable beast that swung his heavy halberd around, slaying every unfortunate soul that stood in his way. Behind him, hundreds of Spaniards, a bit less deadly but just as scary, screaming " _¡Santiago!_ " and " _¡España!_ " as they chased the enemies away. And behind them, at the doors of Cartagena, Blas de Lezo, pistol in hand, yelling orders that were barely heard over the roar of the battle.

And oh, how the tables had turned.

~{x}~

 _It's a battle of wills_

 _In the heat of attack_

 _It's the passion that kills_

 _The victory is yours alone_

~{x}~

Spain found England by accident.

After their last attack, the British had recoiled in chaos, most likely attempting to regroup and plan their next course of action (which, if they were smart, would be full retreat), and the Spaniards had taken the chance to cover the battlefield. The orders were to look for injured soldiers, Spanish and English alike, and depending on their state, either give them a merciful quick death or carry them into the city for treatment. Spain had joined, and Fate decided that the first wounded enemy he was to find was no other than England.

The Brit was unconscious, even though his injuries weren't all that severe (except for a deep cut in his thigh that went from hip to knee). Spain could only assume that it was due to the shock at the sudden turn of events plus all the combined emotions of his soldiers.

Either way, he was his prisoner now.

~{x}~

When England awoke, he was lying on a bed, reclined on a pile of pillows, both hands cuffed to the headboard. Spain was sitting next to him, all his attention focused on the cut on his thigh as he stitched it.

"You made me that," England said, his voice hoarse.

Spain flinched, startled, and stopped stitching for a moment to glance at him. "Did I?" he mumbled. "I don't remember it."

"I didn't think you would. You were completely berserk—didn't look like you."

"Hmm."

"Spain."

"Yes?"

"What… How…" England tried to start his question, not knowing how to word it. Eventually, he sighed and asked in a shaky voice: "Did I lose?"

"I'm afraid so, yes. Your fleet still hasn't retired, but it won't be long until they do."

"… Is it bad?"

"Well, to quote Lezo, now it's only good for carrying coal from Ireland to London."

England closed his eyes and cursed. He really hadn't expected that outcome. Not even in his darkest nightmares. "What are you going to do with me now?" he asked, low.

"Take you with me back to my place. My king will decide then," Spain answered. And then, because he felt like being a little mean, he added: "There's a high chance France will be there."

"France, of course," England groaned. "I'd almost forgotten you changed Austria for him."

Spain tensed at those words. It'd been some decades since the war, but it still hurt. "What are you trying to insinuate?" he asked, his stitching becoming a tad more violent.

"I'm not insinuating anything. I'm merely saying it as it is: you used to be Austria's, and now you're France's."

"I'm not _France's_ ," Spain growled, finishing the stitch and cutting the remaining thread. "As I was never Austria's. You know very well that we're equals and allies."

"I don't mean politically."

Those last words were soft, almost a whisper, and made Spain freeze in place as he understood.

It was true that his current relationship with France was that of two allied countries that shared a royal house; nothing different from what had joined him to Austria for so long. But, in the context of that alliance between Spain and France, Antonio and Francis had taken their former conflictive friendship to another level — a fleeting romance that paled in comparison to what Antonio and Roderich had shared for nearly two centuries.

But…

"I was also yours, once," Spain mumbled.

Downcast, England laughed humourlessly. It was true: they had had their shot at an affair once, as tempestuous and fiery as their personalities, but doomed to fail. It had lasted for barely four years; only a fraction of the time Francis had had so far, nothing in comparison to what Roderich had gotten.

" _Once_ ," England breathed out, somehow managing to convey all his thoughts into that simple word.

"It didn't last longer because you didn't want to."

"Because _my queen_ didn't want to. I never wanted to let you g—"

Spain's lips on his own shut him up.

The kiss, just like their affair, was brief, merely a small taste of what could have been. Because, at the end of the day, that was the problem. Those four years from so long ago were burned into their memories, not short enough to be forgotten, not long enough to satiate their need for _more_. More of the other, so different yet so similar at the same time; more of that torrid relationship they had only gotten a short sample of.

"I wanted it to work," Spain whispered over his lips when they parted. "I wanted it to last forever. We could have ruled the whole world, you and I." His voice was soft and honest. But then he moved to talk into his ear, and his words were harsh:

"The next time you wage war against me, make sure that jealousy is not one of your motives."

He left after that, and still had time to hear England scream as he slammed the door shut behind him.

 **· FIN ·**

* * *

 _AN: The siege of Cartagena de Indias (March 13th - May 20th 1741) was one of the main battles of the War of Jenkins' Ear (_ Guerra del Asiento _in Spanish), which saw Spain and England fight each other for almost a decade (1939 - 1948). This battle could easily be considered the greatest defeat of the Royal Navy in its history. With 180 ships and 30,000 men against a force of barely six (6) ships and 3,000 men, the British not only failed to conquer Cartagena, but also lost half of their ships and at least 6,000 men (some sources even say that up to 18,000!). Many of those lost their lives to the plague, and a good number of the ships were sunk by the Brits themselves because they didn't have enough people to sail them back. The Spaniards lost all their ships and barely 800 men._

 _One of those casualties was, sadly, Blas de Lezo, who died a few months after the end of the siege, on September 7th. The cause of his death is debated: either he caught the plague, or a couple of injuries he received during the battle got infected. Besides his life, he also lost his honour and reputation, all due to the schemes of Eslava, who lied to the king Philip V of Spain about who had beent he real hero (i.e. he claimed the merit for himself). This caused Lezo to be forgotten in history (I'm forever upset that he was not even once mentioned in any of my history lectures in high-school). His last will (to place a placard in the walls of Cartagena with the text "Before these walls, England and her colonies were humilliated") wasn't fulfilled until 2009 — almost 270 years after the battle! It's taken some time, but nowadays_ _he's started to get the recognition he deserves. For instance, in the Spanish Navy there must always be a ship named after him, the highest honour a sailor can get, and he got a statue in Madrid in 2014. He even got a song about him in a Spanish puppet TV show for kids. :P_

 _One of my favourite parts of the battle is that ship that was sent to England announcing victory before the battle was over. When it reached its destination and delivered the (fake) news, there was a huge party in London with fireworks and everything, and the king ordered some commemorative coins to be made. They were golden and represented Lezo kneeling in front of Vernon with the text "The Spanish pride defeated by Admiral Vernon". Of course, when news of **their** defeat reached England, those coins were promptly destroyed. Nowadays there are about 50 left._

 _References in the fanfic regarding other events:  
 **·** In the very first scene, Spain and England make references to the Spanish Great Armada of 1588 (the wrongly called "Invincible Armada" that failed to invade England due mostly to ill weather) and the English Contra-Armada of 1589 (which failed to destroy what was left of the previously mentioned one and was defeated in Galicia, whose people were led in the defense by María Pita).  
 **·** The incident in which Jenkins lost his ear was what kickstarted the rightfully called "War of Jenkins' Ear". The smuggler was caught by the Spansih and captain Juan de León Fandiño sliced off one of his ears and told him to say to his King: "The same will happen to him [the king] if caught doing the same". Of course, a direct threat to a king in the 18th century was a good enough reason to start a war.  
 **·** In the last scene, the war that's briefly mentioned is the Spanish War of Succesion (1700 - 1714), precisely the war in which Lezo lost half his body, which saw Spain's monarchy change from the house of Habsburg (Austrian) to the house of Bourbon (French), thus changing all the alliances and politics that had been settled on Europe for the last couple of centuries. From here come the (former) SpAus and the (current) Frain. And the "once" they mention is 1554 - 1558, the four years that lasted the marriage of Philip II of Spain with Mary Tudor. (... pretty much the only time when Spain and England were allies...)_


End file.
